


Falling Slowly

by siennavie



Series: More Than Team 'Verse [6]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dom/Sub universe, M/M, Multi, Sub Spike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike hides the fact that he's a submissive in order to pursue his dream of being a police officer with his best friend, Lew. In the aftermath of Lew's death, Spike finds solace somewhere he doesn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I could write just one story for this ship, it would be this one ♥
> 
> This story is set in my favorite type of universe, the BDSM AU, where everyone is either a Dominant or a submissive. All of my knowledge of BDSM comes from online research. I'm doing my best to be accurate and respectful, but be aware I might take liberties with certain concepts for the purpose of this story.

"You are lucky we live in progressive times," Dominic Scarlatti says, when 16-year-old Michelangelo 'Spike' Scarlatti opens the result of his Dynamic Assessment Test and a scarlet 's' glares back. "Submissives can be anything they want to be now. Doctor, teacher, scientist—" 

His father's overly hopeful and satisfied tone makes Spike snap, "Except a police officer, Pa!" 

He needn't have bothered. It's an old argument, and his father responds the same every time. "Bah! Enough with that foolish notion! Mr. Young..."

" _Sergeant_ Young," Spike mutters under his breath.

"...should not have put that idea in your head! This"—Dominic grabs the papers and shakes them in the air—"proves you are not fit for that job. My son is not going to be playing with guns and throwing himself at death. You are better than that, Michelangelo. This is a blessing. And with time, you will come to see it that way, too." His father turns and stalks out of the room. His submissive mother smiles tremulously at him before following after his father; Spike had expected nothing else.

He holes up in his bedroom for the rest of the evening. When he refuses to come down for dinner, his mother leaves a tray by the door. Meatballs, his favorite.

Several times that night, he picks up the phone only to replace it in the cradle seconds later. He wants to call his best friend, Lew, to hear a friendly voice, talk to someone on his side. But then he'd have to tell Lew what had happened, and how their plans of going to the police academy together had just gone up in smoke. He's not ready to admit it out loud, not ready to accept that.

His father had got it wrong. Sergeant Young hadn't inspired his interest in law enforcement; it had been his son, Lewis. Lew with his strict sense of honesty, duty, devotion, and loyalty. Lew with a twinkle in his eye and a dry sense of humor. Lew who puts up with his constant chattering, who laughs at his jokes, and helps him put krazy glue on the schoolyard bully's chair. He and Lew are opposites and yet one and the same. They complement each other. So maybe it shouldn't be a surprise, with Lew as a Dom, that he would be a sub. It was the universe balancing their scales again. But this time, that difference poses a real problem.

Subs aren't allowed in law enforcement. According to "experts," subs are a liability: too docile, too suggestible, too susceptible to manipulation. Not only would they put the public at risk, but also their peers. That had been the long standing public perception, and it wasn't going to change any time soon. So, it's obvious to Spike that to solve his problem, something else would have to change.

The federal citizen database isn't hard to find, not for someone with his particular skill. And that's how, with just a few keystrokes, the little 's' next to one Michelangelo Scarlatti's name becomes a capital 'D'.

***

His class schedule arrives the following week and Spike leaves it open-faced on the kitchen table; this isn't something he can hide from his parents. His mother gasps and clutches at her chest when she sees the 'D' by his name and the Dom-specific courses. His father turns a deep shade of red and pins him with an icy gaze. Spike doesn't flinch or look away. The next minute is the longest of his life. When his father clenches his jaw and walks away without a word, Spike breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't need his parents' support, just their silence.

***

He tells Lew the truth. Lew's eyes grow comically wide, but Spike can't find the heart to crack a joke. His insides feel like jello. Of all the people in his life, Lew's opinion matters to him the most. If Lew told him to give up his hare-brained scheme, he would. Perhaps not without some resistance, but eventually Lew's level-headed logic would win out.

Spike trains his eyes on empty space and wills the butterflies in his stomach to settle. He doesn’t realize he's fidgeting until Lew stills his hands with his own. 

"Dude," Lew says. It's followed by an obvious pause meant to get Spike's attention. Spike musters up the courage to look at his friend. 

Lew's eyes are twinkling. "You're too stubborn and mouthy to be a sub. Those results must have been wrong in the first place."

It takes a moment for Spike to process the words, but then he's smiling, and chuckling and blushing all at once. For once, he's at a loss for words. All he can think to say is, "Shut up," when what he really means is _thanks_.

Lew snorts and gives him a lopsided smile. "That's my line, knucklehead."

It's not that funny, but Spike smiles wider and laughs harder at that, overwhelmed with relief. But, all too soon, reality starts sinking in, and the high quickly fades.

He hears Lew call his name. This time, those warm brown eyes are dark and serious. Lew's voice is calm and steady as always when he says, "It doesn’t matter, Spike. I love you for who you are and not some stupid label. You know I'd never tell. And I'll help you however I can. Anything you need."

Spike nods, fighting the burning behind his eyes. "Thanks, Lew. I knew I could count on you."

Lew pulls him into a warm embrace. "Always, man."

**18 Years Later**

It's not the shockwave after the landmine explodes that buckles his knees. It's the indescribable pain that overwhelms him.

In that split second, Spike had lost more than a best friend. He had lost his only confidant and lover.


	2. Chapter 2

**3 Months Later**

It's nearly nine p.m. by the time Ed leaves HQ. With a long weekend ahead, he steers his car towards Greg's place instead of his own. He drives on autopilot, rousing from his thoughts only when the familiar two-story comes into view. The lights in the windows are a warm, welcoming beacon in contrast to his usual dark and empty apartment. Sam's car is already parked out front in his usual spot. Ed pulls up right behind, grabs his loaded duffel from the backseat, and heads up the walkway. The door opens before he reaches the top, a recognizable figure standing in the square of light.

"Slowing down in your old age," Greg says. "Thought you were right behind us."

Ed's lips twist in amusement. He walks up to his lover and gets a kiss before saying, "Just checking on Spike." As he had anticipated, Greg's smile falters, a look of sadness stealing across his face. 

"I thought he'd already left," Greg says.

There isn't a short answer to that, so Ed steps inside and drops his bag by the stairs. Turning back to Greg, he says, "I did, too. But I saw his car in the lot. Found him back inside at Lew's locker, just sitting and staring into space. I tried to talk to him, but he insisted he was fine. Said he just forgot a few things. So I waited until he took off." 

Ed had hoped Spike would confide in him during their time alone, but his presence had been endured with stoic silence. This stiff and subdued Spike that had appeared in the weeks following Lew's death was painful to see. And despite the team's best efforts, Spike only seemed to withdraw further.

"I take it you tried asking again and he said no?" Sam's voice drifts down from above.

Ed looks up at his younger lover jogging down the flight of stairs. "Said he had plans this weekend already." What those plans were, Spike hadn't shared.

There's a mix of frustration and resignation on Sam's face that Ed thinks mirrors his own. At the bottom of the stairs, Ed pulls Sam close and says, "He'll be fine," as much for himself as for his lovers.

***

That night, Sam has a nightmare that wakes them all. He looks tired and apologetic as he murmurs, "The usual," to their hushed queries. Ed understands. They've had a couple of tough calls in succession recently, with Greg being kidnapped and nearly killed, followed by the incident at the Godwin Coliseum. A few nightmares was not unexpected. He shifts closer to Sam and drapes an arm over his lover's waist; Sam's fingers find his and squeeze.

They've barely resettled in bed when the phone rings. Their awakening suddenly feels well-timed. Greg retrieves his cell from the night stand and peers at the caller ID. Upon seeing the name on the screen, he props himself on one elbow and shoots a puzzled look at Ed before answering.

"Spike?"

Ed climbs up to his elbow, wondering what could warrant a call at two in the morning.

When Greg says, "Who is this?" in a slightly hostile tone, Ed sits up straight. Sam looks alert now, too. They're both staring at Greg as if that would give them the power to hear the other side of the call.

A moment later, Greg's shoulders relax marginally and some of the tension bleeds from the room. Ed tries to make sense of the one-sided conversation.

"Yes. I'm his boss. Greg Parker.  
"Is he okay?  
"Of course. I appreciate your discretion. Could I please have your name again?  
"Where is that exactly?  
"I can be there in half an hour."

Ed is already up on his feet along with Sam, flipping light switches and getting dressed by the time Greg ends the call.

***

Spike leans forward and squints. And nearly topples off his bar stool as a result. A strong grip on his upper arm pulls him back on his seat and steadies him. Then that face—that impossible face—comes closer: straight brows, brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, tan skin, white teeth, lips moving…saying something?

"Where…Master?...you…one?"

Spike can't stop staring at that face. It's impossible. Isn't it? Before he can decide, that face jerks upwards, lips moving again. This time, he hears the words loud and clear: "Hey, buddy! Security. Leave now or I'll make ya."

Spike flinches, his temples pounding from the harsh tone. No, not Lew, not like him at all. He drops his head and reaches for his drink only to watch the half-full glass sail away across the countertop. 

"That's enough for you," the not-Lew voice says, and Spike winces at the reprimand even though it's spoken mildly. Fingers lift his chin to meet that face. _Lew? No, not Lew._ "Who's in charge of you, boy?" 

_Charge? That's easy. Ummmmm..._

"B'ss." _Yeah._

"Boss?"

"Gerg," he says, except that doesn't sound right. "Gr-eg." _There._

"He here with you?"

"Nuh-uh."

"You got any friends here with you?"

Spike shakes his head.

There's a firm grip on his bicep and then he's being lifted from his seat. His stomach somersaults in displeasure at the sudden change in position, but he manages to stay upright when he's tugged forward. They zigzag through a throng of bodies. It's hot and he's confused, thinks he should probably be worried. But that thought is fleeting. The hand holding him is strong and sure. He doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't have to. He follows obediently. 

Somewhere away from the crowd, away from the noise, he's pushed to lie flat on a soft surface. The scent of leather here is strong but soothing. Hands briskly pat him down, emptying each of his pockets. Then they're gone, leaving him somehow feeling colder. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask for comfort...until that face moves out of sight and panic explodes. His hand finds empty air. "Lew, wait," he pleads. "Please. Please don't leave me. Please, please, please..." 

His head hurts and his eyes sting from the sudden swell of hot tears, but it doesn't matter because Lew is there again to gently wipe them away. 

"Hey, it's okay, boy. I'm not leaving you—"

"But you did. You did." The panic is gone now, but an unbearable sadness has taken its place. "It should'a been me, Lew. I–I should'a died. You deserve better…better than me…I'mma fuckin' liar…a phony…"

He doesn't remember anything after that. He must have passed out; when he opens eyes he doesn't remember closing, the people in the room have multiplied.


	3. Chapter 3

With Ed driving and most of the city sleeping, they get across town in record time. The Red Door is not a bar Greg knows; neither do Ed or Sam. To their recollection, Spike had never spoken of it either. On the outside, The Red Door looks like the average watering hole; the inside does nothing to change that impression. Which leaves Greg wondering why Spike would pick a place so far away, so inconvenient, for a reckless binge alone.

Greg sighs at the sight of Spike lying unconscious on an old leather couch. Sam gets on one knee to check Spike's condition, while Ed hovers behind him. 

"You can thank Jeri," says Derek, the Red Door's head security guard. He hands Spike's cell phone, keys, and wallet to Greg. "She was his server and flagged me."

"We owe you both thanks then," Greg says and shakes Derek's hand. They fall silent when there's a flutter of movement from the couch. As they watch Sam coaxing Spike to wakefulness, Derek murmurs quietly to Greg, "Personally, if I had my way, subs wouldn't be allowed in here alone. It's not safe, especially when they're wasted. Some dick tops try to take advantage, you know what I mean?" 

_Yes_ , Greg thinks…but also, _No_. He doesn't understand how this pertains to Spike. "Are you saying Spike was trying to take advantage of a sub?" he asks with obvious disbelief.

Now it's Derek's turn to look confused. "No," he says slowly. "I'm saying that some assholes were trying to cage _him_."

Before Greg can get clarification on _that_ answer, a weak voice – but one he would recognize anywhere – gets his attention. 

"L'w?"

Greg steps over to the couch as Sam offers a warm, "Hey, welcome back." Spike's gaze drifts sluggishly past Sam to Ed before wending their way to Greg. After being met with unwavering stoicism for the past few months, Greg is taken aback by the sudden well of emotion: guilt and grief high at the surface, though it's the shame and misery that punches Greg in the gut. That glimpse inside his friend's head lasts only for the briefest of moments. Then it's like someone pulls the plug. Spike's eyes glaze over and flutter to half-mast.

"Spike?" Sam calls. He gives Spike's shoulder a gentle shake. Nothing. Spike's eyes remain unseeing and distant. Ed tries, too, with no better results. They share a look of alarm with Greg, before Ed rises to his feet. 

"Sam—" Ed says.

But Sam is already on the same page. "I got him," he says as Ed hurries from the room. Moments later, Sam follows in Ed's footsteps with Spike cradled in his arms. As Greg moves to follow, Derek puts out a hand to stop him. 

"Listen, I didn't mean to offend or anything," the security guard says in a rush. "And I don't know the whole story. But I'd keep a close eye on him if I were you. He was crying and begging for some guy named Lou and talking about how he should've died or something."

"Understood. Thanks." Greg acknowledges the man's words perfunctorily. He doesn't have time for polite conversation when he has a man down.

He finds his lovers right outside the front door, along with their car, engine idling. Sam is in the far seat with Spike's head in his lap, while Ed finishes tucking limp legs and feet inside. Greg gives a hand closing the door and climbs into the passenger seat as Ed sprints around to the driver's side.

"He feels cold," Sam says, and Greg peels off his jacket and passes it back. Sam adds it to his own blanketing Spike and pulls Spike up higher and tighter against his chest. 

"Is it shock? Alcohol poisoning?" Ed asks as he shifts gears and gets them on the road. "We'll be at the hospital in five."

Greg watches over his shoulder as Sam flips the overhead light and checks Spike over again. "His skin isn't clammy. Normal color from what I can see…Pulse is just a bit slow…Breathing is good." 

Greg turns around in his seat pondering that information. It doesn't fit with shock or alcohol poisoning. It doesn't fit with anything that makes sense really. Ed comes to the same conclusion judging by the perplexed expression on his face and the pensive tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. In the backseat, Sam switches between murmuring softly and gently shaking Spike. Ed's eyes dart repeatedly to the rearview mirror. "We're almost there."

"Wait!" Sam says suddenly. "Spike? C'mon buddy, wake up. Guys, he's moving." And Greg looks over in time to see Spike turn his face into Sam's chest, fingers fumbling from beneath the coats to clutch at Sam's shirt. Then Spike's whole body seems to sigh, relaxing fully, eyes finally drifting shut.

"What's going on?" Ed asks, foot easing off the pedal as he tries to get a good look in the mirror.

"'I'm…not sure," Sam replies, staring down at the man seemingly sleeping now in his arms.

Greg stares at the pair in the backseat. There's something nagging at him. Something the security guard had said. That in consideration with Spike's symptoms—or lack of them—and it becomes suddenly, startlingly clear. "Stop, Eddie. I don't think we need the hospital for this."

"What do you mean?" Ed keeps his foot on the gas.

"I know what this is."

Sam looks up at him in surprise.

"It's subdrop."


	4. Chapter 4

"You mean dom drop, don't you?" asks Sam.

"No, dom drop isn't disabling to this extent. You heard me right," Greg says.

They're parked along the curb now, and Ed is staring at Greg with raised eyebrows. "Well then you're going to have to explain that to us, because you've forgotten one thing—Spike isn't a sub." 

Greg holds up a hand, asking for patience. He's fully aware how far-fetched this sounds. "Just…hear me out. Why do you think security called us, instead of just kicking Spike out? Or sending him home in a cab? Why the personal interest? Why stand guard? Security said that Spike had been distraught. Some Doms had targeted him and that's when they had intervened. All of these people—the waitress, the guard, those other Doms—saw something we didn't. And what they saw made them come to the same conclusion. It didn't make sense to me then, but it makes sense now. How would you describe Spike since we picked him up?"

"Catatonic," Ed says dryly.

"Which," Greg points out, "is a known occurrence in severe cases of subdrop. What else? Start at the beginning."

Ed looks impatient with this line of questioning, but goes along. "Slow, sluggish, confused—which isn't unusual, you know, when you're _wasted_."

"That's true," Greg says. "However, some symptoms of subdrop overlap with symptoms of intoxication making it easy for one to mask the other. Being cognitively impaired and disoriented; being incoherent and uncoordinated; being lethargic, fatigued, depressed—"

"And that's my point," Ed says. "Don't you think it's a _little_ more likely that Spike's had a few too many? What you're suggesting—"

"Is practically unheard of, I know." Greg gestures at the back of the car. "But did you see Spike's instinctive physical response to Sam just now?" Ed glances behind his seat. Spike hadn't moved from his last position, one hand wrapped in Sam's shirt, nose pressed to Sam's chest, the perfect picture of peace. Greg's about to explain, but Sam beats him to it, slow realization spreading across his face: "He was anchoring himself." 

Greg nods. "He's been catatonic this whole drive and when he finally snaps out of it, it’s after you cared for him, gave him physical contact, comfort, reassurance. You made him feel safe."

Sam's expression is awestruck as he turns back to Spike. Ed still looks skeptical, but the furrow in his brow says that he's considering the new evidence, the change in body language that hadn't been visible to him before. There's one way Greg can think of to prove (or disprove) his theory once and for all. He can feel his lovers' eyes on him as he leans over his seat and puts a hand on Spike's arm. 

"Spike. It's Greg," he says and gives Spike a firm shake. "I need you to wake up now." When that gets no reaction, he gives another shake and barks, "Right now, Spike. Open your eyes. That's an order."

Time passes and Spike remains still. Leaning back in his seat, he says, "Ed, you try." 

By now, Ed has caught on to the plan. His voice is sharper, louder, impossible to ignore within the confines of the car. But his effort also ends in vain. He looks at Greg, tips his head to concede the point. Greg feels a flutter in his stomach as he turns to Sam. Of them all, this outcome was the most important. 

"Sam, if I'm right," Greg says, "Spike is tuned only to you. He'll hear you. He'll listen to you."

Sam's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, the only sign of his trepidation. There are reasons none of them have been inclined to take charge of a sub for many years. But Sam's choice is gone now, so Greg watches as Sam sets his jaw and says: "Spike, I know you're not feeling well right now, but I need you to open your eyes for me."

It takes a few seconds—but only a few—for a flutter of eyelashes. Then, a sliver of brown shows through. 

Spike still looks woozy, eyelids heavy and pupils blown wide; but those same eyes search out Sam, gazing upon him devotedly when they do. Wonder and pleasure lights up Sam's face, and Greg feels long-buried emotions stir in his chest. It's a bittersweet moment, a reminder of what they've been missing with their unorthodox arrangement—three Doms without a sub. Sam smooths a hand through Spike's hair and murmurs, "That's good, Spike. So good. You can sleep now. We've got you." Spike obeys, sinking further into Sam's embrace.

For the first time in minutes, Greg feels like he can breathe. What they witnessed—well, instincts don't lie. Beside him, Ed looks stunned and something else Greg can't quite grasp before Ed shakes it off and turns away. There's a different kind of tension in the air now. "How is this possible?" Ed says tightly.

"Mis-ID?" Sam suggests.

"That's rare," Greg muses, "but not unheard of. But even with a false ID, Spike should have realized something was wrong when he matured. It's not something you can hide from yourself."

"So he failed to report it. Chose not to come clean," Ed says.

"Maybe," Greg says, and then adds, "I don't know," when Ed looks unsatisfied with the answer.

Ed stares out the windshield, a deep frown on his face, before starting the engine and declaring, "We're almost there."

"Hold up, Eddie," Greg begins to say, but Sam's voice rises above his: "No, you can't!" 

They all go still. After a quick glance to check on Spike, Sam continues in a quieter but no less urgent tone. "We can't take him to the hospital. If this gets out, he'll be in serious trouble." 

Ed huffs and shakes his head. "You think I haven't thought of that, Sam? What he needs first is help. Dynamic Support. For that, he needs the hospital."

Their eyes clash briefly, before both of their gazes turn on Greg. Greg shakes his head. They're expecting him to be the deciding vote, but he hasn't yet made up his mind. Greg knows that Ed's just following protocol, but Spike's situation is anything but ordinary. 

Sam's focus returns to Ed. "Look, you've been in the Ward before, right? You know they're just gonna stick Spike in some bed with a stranger—"

"This is more serious than just aftercare, Sam," Ed cuts in. "He'll get a professional Dynamic supervisor."

"Same difference," Sam retorts. "A license doesn't change that." 

"They have training, Sam—"

"So do we."

"Not the same. You know that."

"Well, it has to be enough," Sam says, with a stubborn set of his jaw. "You go to the hospital, you might as well drop him off at the station. You want to rat him out? Is that really okay with you?"

Greg winces, sees a muscle jump in Ed's jaw, but he stays silent. Ed is nothing if not fiercely protective and loyal to his team.

Sam seems to realize he's hit a nerve because some of the fight goes out of him. His voice is less aggressive, more imploring the next time he speaks. "He needs dynamic support, I get that. But if the right option means jail or worse...maybe his best chance is with us. I know we're not ideal, but at least he knows us. At least we care about him."

Sam's hold tightens around Spike, and Greg briefly wonders how much of it is Dom instinct kicking in versus the team's natural protectiveness towards each other. In any case, Sam's point is good. Familiarity and trust aid in recovery, and Spike has already made a connection with Sam. Could breaking that bond actually do more harm?

"We can take him to the hospital if he doesn't get better," Sam offers as a final bargaining chip. "But for now...no one has to know but us."

Put that way, there's only one option for Greg. The softened expression on Ed's face says he's been swayed too. Greg nods at Ed, and Ed quietly says, "Okay. Us it is."

***

Spike is completely dead to the world when they arrive home. None of the jostling to get him out of the car, upstairs to the guest bedroom, and undressed for bed makes him stir. Without discussion, Sam strips to his shorts and tee and climbs under the covers with Spike. Greg has no doubt that Sam will take good care of Spike, even if Sam isn't so sure himself. He kisses Sam goodnight and follows Ed to their own room.

It's half past three now and exhaustion is setting in after the night's events. Greg peels off his outer layer of clothes and watches Ed go through the same motions, albeit more stiffly. He waits until they're sitting in bed before asking, "What's on your mind?"

Ed shakes his head in a way that means, _where do I even begin?_

Where indeed, Greg thinks.

It's not until they're stretched out side-by-side and all the lights are off that Ed finally says, "He didn't tell us. _Four_ years. He didn't—" He breaks off in a huff. "He's been pretending for God knows how long. And for what? We're supposed to know this stuff. _I_ need to know this stuff. If anything had happened, if a call had gone another way..." Ed shakes his head. "He was hiding right under our noses, Greg. How did we miss it?"

For someone whose job it is to read people, who takes prides in his perceptiveness, it's an especially tough blow. But Greg can admit when he's been outplayed: "Because—when Michelangelo Scarlatti sets his mind to something, you know he damn well achieves it."

He gives Ed a wry smile and, right before his eyes close, he sees the corner of Ed's mouth twitching up, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Then**

"Hey, there you are."

Spike blinks, trying to chase away the last remnants of sleep when he hears the familiar voice. It's dark outside, but there's a light on inside the room that makes it easy to find Lew sitting at the end of the bed by his feet.

"Lew?" he says, though he already knows the answer. They've done enough crazy things together that his friend's presence in the middle of the night hardly fazes him. What is a little strange, he's only noticing now, is that he's in Lew's bedroom. It's not that they haven't crashed at each other's places before. It's that he doesn’t remember coming over last night.

A pat to his blanket-covered foot takes him away from his thoughts. "Yeah, man. How're you feeling?" Lew asks.

Spike is still too warm and fuzzy from sleep to think the question strange. As is, he sincerely considers the question as he stretches, long and cat-like, from head to toe. For the past two months, he's been twisted up in knots, skin too tight, too thin. It's one thing faking it as a Dom in high school among dynamically-undeveloped teenagers. It's something else entirely to be the lone sub (barring office clerks and training exercise volunteers) in Police College. Although he's getting more confident with each passing day, he hasn't been able to shake that feeling of pressure beneath his skin, of being this close to bursting.

That pressure is gone now. He feels it, or perhaps it's more accurate to say he doesn't feel it, in every muscle down to the bone. For the first time in a long time, he feels free and right inside his skin. It brings a smile to his face. He looks at Lew ready to ask what magic pill they popped last night and if he could have a dozen more please—

But something in Lew's face, a tightness around the edge of his lips and eyes, makes him pause. Smile fading, Spike pushes up to his elbows and asks, "What? What is it? Are you okay?"

Lew's brow twitches, surprise flickering across his face before an air of thoughtfulness settles over him. His eyes are practically boring a hole into Spike's, which, okay, is kinda weird. Spike makes a face and Lew pulls back, though his voice is oddly tentative when he says, "Spike, what do you remember? About last night."

Last night? Spike looks down at the bedsheets pointedly. He went to sleep obviously. But that can't be what Lew's talking about. Well then, he came to Lew's place—clearly—and then...and then...they must have hung out. But as he probes his memories for specifics, what he gets back are hazy impressions, strongly laced with emotion rather than anything tangible.

He sits up straight. Lew's face is carefully blank, not giving a clue, and Spike's stomach does a flip. Staring hard into the space behind Lew's left ear, he wracks his brains, trying to think back to earlier in the night. A scene slowly comes together of scratched wooden tables, faded red bar stools, empty beer bottles and stacked shot glasses. He'd hit the bar harder than usual, celebrating— 

"Your birthday," Spike murmurs, and wonders how in the hell had he forgotten _that_? The bartender had raised a skeptical eyebrow at Lew's ID. Like Spike, Lew looked young for his nineteen years. "We were at Duke's," Spike says, barely above a whisper, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lew nodding. The memories are flowing now, but like all too brief snapshots in a slideshow:

 _...Lew drinking._  
_...Lew laughing, hand raised to order another round of shots._  
_...Lew asking, "You okay?"_  
_...Lew's face up close. So close._  
_..."I don't think you should have any more, Spike."_  
_...Lew pushing his hand away. "No, not here."_  
_..."C'mon, Spike. We gotta go."_  
_...Lew walking beside him. "Almost there."_  
_...Lew taking his hand in the elevator._  
_...The door slamming. Lew pushing him up against a wall._  
_...Lew squeezing his wrists._  
_..."It's okay now. You can let go. I'm here, Spike. Don't drop._ Don't _drop."_

Drop. 

But dropping meant...

Spike's heart skips a beat before taking up a pounding rhythm in his ears. He feels hot all over suddenly. Did the lights get brighter? No, the room's definitely getting darker. There's some rocking action happening, too, like he's on a boat. He doesn't realize it's him that's moving, and not the walls, until strong hands grip his shoulders and hold him steady.

"Spike."

Lew's voice beckons to him. Spike lifts his eyes to his friend's face and flinches when a memory suddenly hits him.

_...Lew leaning over him, stroking his hair. "That's it, Spike. You did so well. Good boy."_

The light-headedness is sudden. Lew's grip tightens on him, and Spike can only stare dumbly at his friend as he's gently eased onto his back again. As the darkness recedes, he's left feeling numb. He comes around to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair, perfectly replicating the motion from his memories. Lew keeps a slow, easy rhythm that belies the worried frown on his face. And it's like the light suddenly shifts in the room, to a previously invisible end of the spectrum. Lew who looks at once the same but different—lean but sturdy, gentle but strong, quiet but powerful, _safe_ like the proverbial shelter in a storm. There's an unfamiliar fluttering in his stomach that only grows when Lew's eyes make contact with his.

"Are you back with me, Spike?"

Spike can't say a word at first, tongue lying thick in his mouth. But he's able to move his head and nod.

Lew looks contrite. "I'm sorry, that probably wasn't the best way to handle it. I should've just told you."

His best bud's misplaced guilt does wonders to loosen his tongue.

"Not your fault." It really isn't. Lew shouldn't have had to do any of this. Spike had fucked up and Lew had saved his ass as usual. He ducks his head, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawling into his cheeks. Beside him, Lew is quiet. The silence lingers...and so does the elephant in the room. Eventually, Spike's need to know overcomes his embarrassment.

"So," Spike begins hesitantly. "Last night. I, um...I dropped." That word was harder to say than he'd thought.

"It was close," Lew says. "But no. You only slipped into subspace."

_Subspace._

He hears the echo of a memory in his head.

_Good boy._

It makes him flash hot and cold all at once.

"How?" he asks, pushing the word past a lump in his throat.

Lew takes a long, slow breath before replying. "I'm not really sure. I guess the first clue was that you got quiet after a few drinks. It wasn't anything really out of the ordinary so I didn't realize..." His voice trails off on a guilty note, and if Spike hadn't been so busy keeping his own emotions in check, he would have noticed. Instead, he's lost in his own thoughts. How had he been so stupid, so careless? So blind and unaware and ignorant? Had this really come out of the blue or had his body been signaling this whole time and he'd just been so much in denial that he refused to see it. It had all been so quick, so easy. Could it happen again? He almost fucked this up so bad for Lew. Maybe—

_"Spike."_

Spike's eyes shoot open, thoughts scattering at the sharp call of his name. A hand on his cheek, broad and heavy quickly grounds him. Looking up, he finds Lew watching him intently, eyes darker than he's ever seen them. Suddenly, he feels completely bare, small and vulnerable in a way he's never felt before. Whatever Lew is reading on his face, whatever Spike is unconsciously broadcasting, however, has all the sharp lines on Lew's face quickly softening. His voice is nothing but gentle and kind when he says, "It's okay, Spike. No one noticed. You're safe. I know you're scared by what happened, but we'll figure this out. You and me. We got this."

Spike takes a stuttering breath. He hadn't known how much he needed to hear those words aloud. Lew strokes his cheek with the pad of his thumb, and Spike leans into it unthinkingly. Once Lew is convinced that Spike is fine and not about to faint or drop or do something else embarrassing (Lew doesn't actually say any of this, but Spike _knows_ ), he turns off the light and joins Spike in bed. There's a little space between them that Spike wishes he could close. Instead, he turns on his side to face the wall. 

He doesn’t sleep another wink that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 18 months, the first of Lew/Spike :) Hooray? 
> 
> Also, if you visited this story prior to March 2017, I suggest re-reading the heavily edited Chapter 4. Although it's not vital to do so now. In fact, maybe you should wait until the next chapter where it picks up from that time line, especially since I can't guarantee when that chapter is coming. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Maybe it'll help me finally pick a direction to go.


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